


We'll Become Who We Meant To Be

by missroserose



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Child Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Light Angst, M/M, Sailor steve, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: It’s not his business.  This is clearly a family affair.  It’s not on him to interrupt.  He should turn around and pretend he didn’t see anything.  It’s not his place.  He shouldn’t get involved.  People will be angry at him if he tries to step in.  He’s wearing a fuckingsailor suit, for god’s sake—Billy’s lip is bleeding.And Billy’s father—is smiling.





	We'll Become Who We Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).

_“I think that we all do heroic things; but hero is not a noun, it’s a verb.” –Robert Downey, Jr._

*

“Good morning,” Joyce Byers said with some irony.

She was sitting at the table in the darkened kitchen, lit only by the hood lamp over the aging stove and the bright cherry of her cigarette. Steve glanced at the clock over the range; it was past one AM. He avoided looking at the freezer, even though he knew the corpse of the demo-dog was gone; he’d buried it himself, yesterday.

“Sorry,” he said, felt a little like he was intruding on a private moment. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Joyce smiled, looking for a moment like an old priestess, careworn but welcoming. “That makes two of us. Come on, sit down.”

Steve sat, gingerly—Joyce looked so tired, the perennial circles under her eyes even darker than usual. Not that his own mug was any great work of art, in its current condition. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Joyce asked, “How’s your face?”

He gave an embarrassed sort of half-shrug. The truth was, it hurt like a bitch. “Nothing broken. It’ll heal.” A pause, as he scrambled for something to say. “How’s Will?”

She gave a wry half-smile to match his shrug. “He’ll heal, at least.” A pause, as she took a drag on the cigarette, held it in for a moment, blew it out. “Or he won’t. But he’s a tough kid. Tougher than people give him credit for.”

Steve thought of the sight that met him when he checked on the kids a minute ago, sleeping preteens draped over each other like puppies sharing warmth. “He has good friends.”

“Better than yours were?” Her question prodded at a less physical sort of bruise, and Steve winced. Joyce shook her head in a vague apology. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. But you seem awfully lonely. The kids are great, but…”

Steve understood what she meant. “I guess. All my friends were…assholes, really. They were assholes because I was an asshole. Then…I fell in love with Nance, and she wanted…someone better. Someone decent.” The words started out hesitant, but soon began daisy-chaining together, one after the next, a magician’s scarf pulled from a sleeve. “And for a little while I thought, I could do it. I can be that for her. So I dumped my asshole friends. I gave up on being the cool guy, tried to be a decent guy instead. Tried to be the hero she needed. And now—” 

He didn’t have to finish the story; they both knew how it turned out. Joyce simply looked at him, the cherry brightening as she took another drag.

Steve shrugged again, suddenly bashful. “I was just fooling myself, anyway. I’ve never been that type. I think—” His voice cracked a little, but Joyce pretended not to notice, for which Steve found himself decidedly grateful. “Honestly, I think she was right to dump me.”

The words sat between them, heavy pebbles polished to a high sheen by their constant tumbling in Steve’s mind.

After a moment, Joyce reached into her pocket and handed over the pack of cigarettes.

“Do you want to be a hero?”

*

Behind the mall, standing just upwind of the dumpsters and sweating in the humid June afternoon, Steve doesn’t feel like a hero.

He feels…ordinary. An ordinary wage slave, working an ordinary gig in a mall that, despite what the ads on TV would have you believe, is about as ordinary as you can get. Dozens of them, all across Middle America.

He finds the thought—the anonymity—oddly comforting.

Which doesn’t make the job itself suck any less. He lingers for a moment, working up the courage to cross the parking lot in his ridiculous sailor uniform. There’s just enough wind to ruffle through his hair, dry the sweat that somehow always accumulates there despite the mall’s air-conditioning. Taking the trash out is possibly the least glamorous part of an unglamorous job, but Steve appreciates precisely one thing about it—it means his shift is over, which means he can finally ditch the stupid fucking hat. 

He takes a couple of breaths, savoring the warm soupy air after hours spent in refrigerated, fluorescent-lit hell. He fingers the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, debating whether to light one. He knows Dustin would get on his back about it—_haven’t you seen the news? Those things will give you cancer, Steven!_—but he’d like to see Dustin do this job without something to help him keep his cool—

“Boy, we’ve talked about this. You know good and well what happens when you mouth off in front of your sister like that. You want her to learn your disrespectful habits?”

The words only half-register in Steve’s distracted state, the anger in them leaving more of an impression than the actual meaning. It’s the response that catches his ear—he knows that obstinate baritone. “Are we talking about the same Maxine? She doesn’t need my help to be smart. She just keeps it bottled up around you and Susan.” 

That voice doesn’t sound like Steve’s ever heard it. It’s…whiny, almost. Petulant, with an undercurrent of something he can’t quite place, something that’s _wrong_ in it the way demodogs were _wrong_ in the junkyard. Something that doesn’t fit.

“Then perhaps you should learn from her example.” The voices are coming from round the corner, where (Steve knows, because it’s an excellent spot for a smoke break) two protrusions along the mall’s side make a convenient alcove.

Steve knows he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he tiptoes a little closer anyway, careful to keep out of sight. 

“Sure, if you want me to act like a little bitch, I’ll start studying right the hell up—”

Punches, Steve has had reason to discover, sound nothing at all like they do in the movies. The noise is somewhere between a slap and a thud—the tangible _thwack_ of skin hitting skin, the darker, more visceral _thump_ of the bones beneath colliding with barely a thin cushion of meat between them. Steve’s gut clenches, and without realizing he’d made the decision, he finds himself rounding the corner. ”Hey! What’re you—“

He hasn’t seen Billy Hargrove since graduation—since before then, really; Hargrove hadn’t bothered to show up to the ceremony, and Steve, who had endured what felt like hours of smiling and shaking his father’s friends’ hands, had found himself a little envious. Now he stands against the wall, posture defiant despite the fingers gathered in the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes meet Steve’s, widen, something of that same wrongness in them. “Harrington?” he says, his voice rough as if the word had been dragged out via fishhook—then his gaze drops, perhaps in preparation for the fist that’s pulled back, ready to strike again.

Steve follows that fist along its arm back to its owner. He doesn’t recognize the man, and there’s not much resemblance—broader build, haircut that might’ve once been military, square jaw. But the sudden hollow sensation in Steve’s stomach, as the man’s intense blue-eyed gaze turns on him, is horribly familiar.

This has to be Billy’s father.

It’s not his business. This is clearly a family affair. It’s not on him to interrupt. He should turn around and pretend he didn’t see anything. It’s not his place. He shouldn’t get involved. People will be angry at him if he tries to step in. He’s wearing a fucking sailor suit, for god’s sake—

Billy’s lip is bleeding.

And Billy’s father—is smiling.

The smile has an edge to it, a glitter like the fresh-cut edge of rusted rebar. It reminds Steve of his own joyless grin, captured in that stupid commercial for everyone in Hawkins to see in between reruns of _M*A*S*H_—and Steve’s hit with a terrible sense of deja vu, waits for the man to throw his head back. Hears Billy’s wild laughter in his head. _I’ve been waiting to meet this King Steve everyone’s been talking about—_

But he doesn’t laugh, only lets go of Billy’s collar, turns. Straightens. “Ahh. You must be the Harrington boy.” He takes a step towards Steve. “I’ve heard a bit about you. Seems you got a couple good hits in on Billy here last fall before he laid you out.”

Despite the casual tone, despite the sweltering heat, Steve can feel the words trickle down his spine, icy trails left as they pool cold in his gut. He wants to bluster, he wants to cower, he wants to run; he can’t move, doesn’t even know how his voice will sound when he opens his mouth. “I’m sorry—”

The man waves a hand, the same hand that had been pulled back in a fist just moments ago. “No, no. No need to be sorry. Boys will be boys, and _my son_—” here he glances back at Billy, who’s staring resolutely at the asphalt—“has an attitude problem.” He runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his collar. “In any case, I should be getting back to the family. I’ll let the two of you work things out.” A hand comes down on Steve’s shoulder, somehow far heavier than it should be. “And Billy?”

Steve doesn’t miss the way Billy flinches when the man says his name. “Yes?”

“Don’t be too long. I expect to see you in an hour for the movie.”

They stand for a moment after the man leaves, minutes or hours or days. The hair on the back of Steve’s neck eventually lays back down. Billy still refuses to meet Steve’s eyes.

Finally, Billy speaks. “Go on then.” He doesn’t look up. His voice sounds more normal, just…tired. Defeated. “You heard him. Take a swing.”

Steve blinks. And, for a moment…

…but that, as Dustin would say, is the Dark Side talking. And didn’t the green guy with the big ears have something to say about that? Forever will it dominate your destiny…

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

Billy finally looks up again, and as those blue eyes meet his, all thoughts of Star Wars are immediately gone from Steve’s head. If there’s one thing Billy shares with his father, it’s that ability to project danger.

“Don’t be sorry,” Billy spits. “Just punch me and get it over with. We both know you want to.”

“And have you lay me out again?” Steve scoffs. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I won’t.” Billy lifts his chin a little. “I can take my licks. I’m not a pussy.”

And Steve…is tempted. Curls his fingers into a fist as he imagines the deeply satisfying slap-thud of landing a punch on Billy’s jaw. Payback for days spent with a swollen face, weeks of watching his supposed friends drift away, months of frustration at the constant snubs and taunts and put-downs.

It’d be a good thing, in the end, says a voice in Steve’s head. A preemptive strike. Show the enemy your strength, deter them from attacking in the future and causing greater damage. Heroic, even—

_Do you want to be a hero?_

Steve takes a breath. Uncurls his fingers.

“It’s not right,” he says. “Doesn’t matter if it’s him or me. You don’t deserve that shit.”

Billy’s eyes flash at that, and he pushes off from the wall. Gets up in Steve’s face. “Don’t tell me what I fucking _deserve_, Harrington. You don’t know shit about me.” He jabs a finger in Steve’s chest. “You don’t know what I’m like. What I’m capable of. Don’t you ever fucking pity me—”

Steve holds up his hands, steps back. Is about to turn on his heel. Serves him right for trying to be a decent human being to this asshole—

Billy’s hand is shaking.

He glances at Billy again. Really looks him in the face. In his eyes. And something there causes a fluttering hollow, deep in his stomach. An alien feeling. 

Carefully, exaggeratedly, he looks down, then up. “Do I look like I’m in a position to pity anyone?”

He watches as Billy’s gaze rakes over his outfit. Watches his expression turn from angry, to vulnerable, to confounded. “…the fuck are you wearing?”

Slowly, Steve reaches into his pocket. Pulls out the cigarettes.

“Tell you what,” he says, keeping his voice casual. Taps out a cigarette, holds it out to Billy, a peace offering in a white cylinder. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what your father was so pissed about.” 

“Like he needs a fuckin’ reason,” Billy mutters, but he takes the cigarette between his lips, reaches into his own pocket for a lighter. “I’m disrespectful, is all. A bad seed. Anyone can tell.” Flicks it, once, twice, but his hands are shaking too hard to get a proper catch on the wick.

“Here, let me,” Steve says on instinct, reaches up to help. 

He only means to take the lighter from Billy, but his fingers brush Billy’s hand, and he nearly jumps at the sensation. Skin on skin, tingling, almost electric.

Billy goes _still_. Steve flicks his eyes back up to Billy’s face, half afraid he’s having some kind of fit, but he’s breathing—rapid and shallow, blue eyes fixed on the lighter, on the place where their hands touch. Those eyes raise to meet his—not quite a question.

Not quite a denial, either.

Delicately, Steve wraps his hands around Billy’s. He flicks the wheel on the lighter, holds Billy’s hand steady as he guides it to the cigarette. The space between them is so quiet, Steve can hear the paper shrivel beneath the heat.

Belatedly, Billy sucks in air, lights the cig properly. Steve snaps the lighter shut, withdraws his hands. Waits for the awkward moment to pass, for Billy to step away.

He doesn’t. Billy pockets the lighter. Looks up at Steve again. And there’s something…not wrong in this eyes, this time, but _different_. Clearer, like a window that’s been cleaned of grime.

“It was Max.” The words are mumbled around the cigarette, barely more than a bitter whisper. He takes a drag, turns his head to the side to blow it out. “Little bitch was pocketing a lipstick. Neil was already in a mood, was about to round the corner and see her. So I—I said some shit.” He shrugs, looks down at the bloodstained cigarette between his fingers. “I don’t remember what. Doesn’t really matter. It got his attention.”

Steve feels something sour turn over in his gut. “Does he hit her too?”

A flare in Billy’s eyes, the usual defiance reappearing; for a moment Steve is convinced he’s gone too far. Steels himself for more venomous words, maybe for a punch. 

Then Billy’s eyes brighten again, and—a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Not yet.” A trembling hand to his lips, another drag on the cigarette. “Not ever, so long as I’m around.” 

Their gaze has gotten a little too intimate. Steve sucks in a breath, moves to the side, takes a few steps over to the wall. Leans with his back against it, pulls out a cigarette for himself. Billy joins him, and they smoke together for a moment, in silence.

Steve’s emotions are a jumble. Surprise, that Billy would care so much. Anger, that this would be the choice that defines anyone’s life. Fear, for Billy and for Max. And something else, something he can’t quite define, but that fills his chest with sweet-scented air.

Awe, maybe.

“Some people would call that heroic,” he finally says.

Billy gives a sort of half-smile, though it’s more bitter than sad. “Yeah, well. We’re family. We’re all we’ve got.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not true.” He bumps his shoulder, lightly, against Billy’s. “You’ve got me too.” He laughs, then, just as bitter. “For what that’s worth. No college. No apartment. Three bucks an hour scooping ice cream. No future.” He makes a sad little jazz-hands motion. “Ta daaa. King Steve, at your service.”

Billy turns, takes a moment to savor the sight of Steve in his uniform. “Could be worse,” he says.

“Oh? How, exactly, could it be worse?”

A little of the old cockiness comes back into his stance, as he shoots Steve a wink. “You look fuckin’ adorable in that suit.”

*

“Do you want to be a hero?”

Steve had smoked his cigarette halfway down by the time he answered. “Doesn’t everyone? Fight evil? Save the day? Get the girl? All the movie stuff?”

It was Joyce’s turn to shrug as she tapped her butt out in the ashtray. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hero’. Some people want all of that. Some people prefer things…quieter. They want to have friends, and a life, and maybe someone to love. But put those people in danger, put the people they love in danger…and they’ll do anything to save them. Face down a monster. Spread a rumor. Take a beating from a bully.” She pauses, looks at his face meaningfully. “Does that make them less heroic?”

Steve hadn’t known that blushing could hurt. “I dunno. Maybe those people could’ve done more. Maybe…what they did wasn’t enough, in the end.”

To his surprise, Joyce sat back in her chair, thought it over. “Maybe they’re not heroes, then.” She nodded, as if she’d come to some conclusion, and smiled at Steve. “Maybe they’re just decent people.”

*

_“There is only one heroism in the world: to see the world as it is, and to love it.” –Romain Rolland_

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shoutout to [blahblahblahcollapse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahblahcollapse/pseuds/blahblahblahcollapse) for beta-ing and then listening to my stoned ass ramble about titles and themes far too late into the night. You're the best, love. <3
> 
> Let's [tumbl together](http://missroserose.tumblr.com)!


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